


Pride, Your Dignity of Mind

by Voreiska



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Derse and Prospit, F/F, F/M, Kinda?, theyre somethin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:08:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22487671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voreiska/pseuds/Voreiska
Summary: In which Rose Lalonde discovers that hell is significantly more purple than she anticipated.[DISCONTINUED]
Relationships: Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas, Rose Lalonde & Dave Strider, Rose Lalonde/Kanaya Maryam
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	Pride, Your Dignity of Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Alrighty! I wrote this beginning part over a year ago, and I can barely even remember where I wanted this story to go, but I'm posting it anyway, mostly because I don't see a reason not to.  
> For some world-building, Kanaya and the other trolls are God-like figures that reside on Prospit and Derse, the deciding of which doesn't necessarily lend to lunar sways.  
> Rose, Kanaya, Karkat, and Dave are the main characters here, with Rosemary being the primary ship. Oh, how the tables have turned.  
> I'm posting this as I go, so no update schedule is in place, nor do I know if I will even continue. Let me know what you think!

You hate the way your house smells.

It’s an odd thing to despise, but you truly can not stand the aroma that so often whispers around corners and throughout your house. There’s always something cinnamon in the air, a hint too sweet, although you suppose the occasional reek of alcohol balances it out. You use to think your mother had just been lighting candles diligently, but you’ve never been able to find any cinnamon scented ones. You still aren’t sure how she does it. When the cinnamon is strong, however, you hate it with a passion. It smells too inviting, too friendly. It smells like the comfort of a home, which is so far from what this labyrinth of a house is. A house that smells like cinnamon gives off the vibe of a perfect little family. You can almost picture it- two darling little children (a boy and a girl, of course, because where would we be without a lovely nuclear family?) who come home to a mentally stable mother baking sweets and will affectionately ask about their day, and helps them with their homework until the father comes home from his successful and stress-free job to eat the perfect family dinner in their perfect little dining room and they’ll laugh at the perfect stories and-

You’re getting ahead of yourself. The point is, you hate the smell of your house, not because cinnamon is a particularly infuriating scent, but because it’s lying. You don’t have a perfect family and you never will. Your house is too large with an excessive amount of staircases and you hate that you can walk for hours without encountering a single living being. You hate your mother’s inability to check in on you, even though you would prefer to not be around when she falls off the wagon and hits her head. And, most of all, you hate not knowing what lies behind the closed doors scattered throughout the mansion.

You’ve been told not to open them. 

You’ve tried, of course. What curious-minded girl wouldn’t? But they appeared to be locked, and you fear the keys are hidden somewhere. Keys hidden by the drunk aren’t exactly easy to find. And so, above it all, you hate knowing that you are unable to know. To feel a little less angry, a little less godforsaken, you read. There’s something about being completely vulnerable to nobody but your stories that strikes you as inspirational, appealing. Forgetting your own reality for a few hours is far worth the rather long walk to reach the extensive library your mother had installed when you complained that the fees for late books at the public library were too high (you still stand by that notion, but you think spending thousands of dollars to buy all the greatest books and series in human history was too much. It was embarrassing and you know she did it just to get on your nerves).

You are walking now, not quite in any direction, you just don’t feel like wasting the day in your admittedly cozy room. “Waste” was a bit harsh-you usually spend free time either reading or researching about horrors from other realms, or writing about wizards.

Sometimes you combine the two and create eldritch horror/wizard crossovers in your writing. You think these are your best works, although you desperately hide the journals when not in use. Imagine the schemes your mother would cook up if she were to find and read them!

Today, however, feels like an appropriate day to catch up with your friends. You’ve been a bit unavailable, between the writing and a new project you’ve been working on. There was one section of your mother’s library that you hadn’t ever focused on, until last week when an even-older-than-usual book fell directly off the shelf and nearly killed your cat. Luckily, Jaspers II was fine, and so was the tomb. It had been heavy, and immediately caught your eye when you went to return it to its place. Since then, you’ve gathered all the books related to the same subject (which wasn’t many, perhaps only three or four?) and tried to read them. “Tried” being the key word, because they were written in a damn code that’s taking you ages to translate. You’ve just managed to decode a few key phrases and five or six chapters in what appears to be the first of the series, and now know that they are written about some otherworldly realm by the name of Derse, and its sister realm (planet? The translations could be a bit ambiguous. Either way, the two were connected) Prospit. At first, you believed them to be works of fiction, and a large part of you still does, but there’s a small whispering that suggests a different story entirely. A story rather...suspicious. You have never been a gullible or naive person, but this scripture is worded in a way that is testing your doubts. Enough to warrant a deep dive into research, you had decided.

Your footfalls are soft as you tread through the hallway, lazily gazing at the photographs hung perfectly on the beige walls. They aren’t anything interesting, and you’ve seen them a million times before.

You kinda miss the days when your mother took thousands of photos a day. It had, at the very least, shown that she was interested in being a parent figure who wanted to document her charge’s childhood. You haven’t seen her pick up a camera in years.

Your fingers graze the outline of your phone in your pocket before you carefully slip it out. You maneuver around the interface until your chumroll fills the tiny glowing screen. Only one of your friends is online at the moment, but that’s fine with you. Trying to talk to more than one person at once can be a bit draining sometimes.

\--TentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering TurntechGodhead [TG] --

TT: Good morning, Dave. 

TG: sup lalonde 

TG: whats the haps 

TT: The haps? 

TG: yeah 

TG: the haps 

TG: ya know 

TG: what the fucks goin on in the good ole state of ny 

TG: or as some fancy ass snob might say the big apple 

TG: i still cant believe there isnt an actual momentous sized fruit just chillin in your city 

TG: seriously that shits a misnomer 

TG: also its disappointing 

TG: but anyway 

TG: as i said before 

TG: whats the haps in ny 

TT: Well, while I am not quite confident in my ability to know what the entire state of New York is doing at this very moment, I can certainly say that my morning has been rather uneventful. 

TT: Although, I have successfully decoded another section of the book. It’s small, but it’s something. 

TG: lmao thats what she said 

TG: jk but damn you still on that 

TG: whatd you find out 

TG: is the book gonna tell you how to live forever 

TG: like oh here little miss no life since you spent the last week reading a fuckton of boring bullshit you get to live forever 

TG: everybody else will die off and youll just be sitting all smug and proper because you decoded a thousand year old book and fulfilled your dreams of becoming an eldritch horror 

TG: or 

TG: thousand year old books 

TG: plural 

TG: wasnt it part of a series 

TG: idk you didnt actually tell me a lot 

TG: anyway if you could actually get immortality you probably wouldnt even do anything cool 

TG: unlike me id be the coolest immortal ever 

TG: youd just spend all of eternity reading even more boring books or trying to pick up chicks 

TG: hey rose if the book gives you the option of immortality or getting a gf what would you choose 

TT: Dave. 

TG: oh boy 

TT: First of all, the series is not boring in the slightest. Even if it is just a work of fiction, it’s beautifully and elegantly written. If I can’t appreciate the possible reality, then I can at least appreciate that. 

TG: yeah but youd be disappointed if it was fake wouldnt you 

TG: youre already super attached to the damn thing 

TG: i mean i havent even talked to you much this week bc youve been so busy trying to unearth its secrets like some kind of psychotic archaeologist 

TT: There’s just something about it that appears so...real. 

TT: I can’t quite explain how or why, but I truly believe that this is a bit more than just some old fable. 

TT: And if it is a hoax, then the author put an awful lot of precious time and effort into making it read so convincing. A bit much of an elaborate prank, don’t you think? 

TG: plot twist the book leads to time travel and johns the one who wrote it to prank you 

TG: weve all been fooled 

TG: nobody saw it coming and now we gotta walk home in shame 

TG: hes just that good 

TT: That wouldn’t be much of a prank then, since time travel still seems to be a valid reward to the sheer amount of work I’ve had to do to get even this far, and I’m still nowhere near close to finishing the translations. 

TT: There actually is something written in here concerning time, however, which I suppose makes sense if the book was written to be read by future generations. 

TT: Something about a certain Knight of Time? It’s all a little unclear, and what I assume was a name afterward has been obliterated to the point I don’t believe I’m going to be able to uncover it. There’s also scripture about a Seer of Light, Heir of Breath, and a Witch of Space, but every single corresponding name has been scratched out, with purpose. Someone doesn’t want them to be known, but I’ll be damned if I don’t figure it out. 

TG: jesus 

TG: cant you just like 

TG: google it or something 

TG: i mean theres gotta be somethin on those suspicious and irrelevant titles right 

TG: or even the name of the goddamn book 

TG: or the authors name 

TG: betcha whoever wrote it was apeshit crazy 

TG: you gotta be downright insane to write about this shit whether or not its real you know 

TG: and you dont even have it all translated yet right 

TG: its like youre trying to solve a puzzle except youre missing all the pieces and also youre blind 

TG: cant even see what masterpiece youre trying to make 

TG: relying purely on feel here lalonde 

TG: have no reason to care about a damn puzzle bc blind but still sitting here with my grubby fingers trying to pick up the pieces 

TG: or 

TG: lack of pieces 

TG: poor fool dont even realize theres nothing there so basically just groping the air like a perv at a sorority 

TG: or wait 

TG: that was weak hold on 

TT: That's more than fine, Dave. TT: I'm sure I can survive a few minutes without your rather hasty metaphors. 

TG: suit yourself but if you keel over and die from a lack of strider esq brilliance dont come crying to me 

TT: Given that I would be nothing more than a corpse in this situation, that would be rather impressive. 

TT: Anyway, I have tried simply doing online research about nearly every aspect of this book. Nothing shows up for the titles, which is odd. There isn't even a collection of unrelated pictures and links, I just get a 404. And I can't read the author's name well enough to Google it, anyhow. 

TT: The spine of the cover is in tatters, and the cover is mostly incomprehensible. It’s a miracle I can even read the title. 

TT: I can barely make out the name “Doc”, and then a series of scratches that renders the rest of the name ineligible. 

TG: doc huh 

TT: Yes. Not particularly interesting, although do you think his name is Doc, or does he perhaps own a doctorate? I’m honestly hoping for the latter, it would add to the validity of the scripture. 

TG: idk lalonde psychoanalyzing shit is your thing 

TG: i dont spend time debating whether or not a dead stranger is a doctor for one thing lmao 

TT: What if he wasn’t dead? 

TG: what 

TT: You heard me. 

TG: rose that book is centuries old theres literally no way the fuckin dude is still around 

TG: i was joking when i said the book gave you immortality 

TG: or time travel 

TG: rose pls 

TG: no 

TT: It’s just. 

TT: There’s a single line, right here. Chapter two. It heavily suggests that Doc Scratch might not be mortal. He could still be around, even today. It’s a long shot, but I want to find out. 

TG:... 

TG: doc scratch 

TT: That’s what I’m choosing to refer to him as until I can get a proper name. You know, with the scratches after his first name/title? 

TT: I thought it was fitting. 

TG: whatever 

TG: want or need 

TT: Pardon? 

TG: do you want 

TG: or need 

TG: to figure out if an author from the dark ages is still around 

TT: I’m afraid I’m not following you? 

TG: is this gonna be something you can let go of if it leads nowhere or are you going to obsess over it till you forget to shower or go outside or eat because you feel like youre losing your mind if you cant solve it 

TG: you have a bit of an obsession with knowing shit rose 

TT: I thought, and I quote, “psychoanalyzing shit is my thing”? 

TG: shut up 

TG: im just making sure you put yourself before this goddamn book 

TG: i already said i havent spoken to you like at all this week what more proof do i need 

TT: People get busy, Dave. I apologize for being a bit AFK, but I do have a life outside my phone, remember? And I was merely interested in the topic and thought to put a little time aside to study it. No harm in that. 

TG: theres no harm until you keep doin this shit 

TG: this whole shabang has happened before with you just kinda forgetting that youre a human with basic fuckin needs 

TG: didnt your mom like TG: actually have to kidnap you from your room to get you outside once 

TT: It wasn’t a kidnapping, Dave. She just. 

TT: Surprised me. 

TT: And those were...different times. I promise I know my limits and I will not let this silly book overwhelm me. Although, I appreciate you looking out for me, really. 

TT: It’s uncharacteristically sweet. 

TG: all the cool kids got to have a secret sensitive side rose 

TG: this is basic theatrics come on keep up with the program 

TG: but 

TG: yeah 

TG: anytime 

TG: just promise that youre doing other shit besides burying your nose in this book 

TG: take a break every once in a while rose 

TG: do some writing or something 

TG: like seriously you havent even sent me any borderline pornographic wizard slash lately whats up with that 

TG: you havent given that up have you 

TG: you cant rose it might be really fuckin concerning but its also hilarious 

TT: The day I stop writing about wizards is the day I die. 

TG: i get the feeling youd still write it even if you were dead 

TG: like youre in hell making all the demons uncomfortable with these old men with pointy rods and excessive facial hair 

TG: no but seriously youre gonna take a breather right 

TT: Of course, Dave. 

TG: cool 

TG: youre not gonna listen to me are you 

TT: I’m walking to the library as we speak. 

TG: goddamn 

You smile here, just a bit.

TG: alright fine go get possessed by murder demons or whatever 

TG: just 

TG: be careful 

TG: ik this is probably just some bullshit but i can kinda see what you mean by it feeling real 

TG: and i havent even read the damn thing 

TG: i 

TG: gotta bad feeling about it 

TG: anyway im gonna go do something else 

TG: probably just sit around bein cool as fuck 

TG: just the chillest motherfucker on the block 

TG: have fun with your hell book 

TT: Oh, wait, before you go? 

TG: yea 

TT: I’d choose the girlfriend. 

TG: snort 

\--TentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering TurntechGodhead [TG] --

You close the application and continue walking, quite true to your word.

___________________

As you had previously mentioned, the walk to the library wasn’t exactly a quick jaunt and you were there. You had to cross three hallways, two sets of stairs, and at least one nonsensical doorway.

Did you mention you hate this house?

But now, you stand just outside the desired room, slightly out of breath. You had power-walked the last two hallways, desperate to continue your work. Your head is spinning with so many theories and concepts, some of which you may actually be afraid to pursue. You had never known Dave to be so explicitly antagonistic towards one of your projects. Really, he has never even been known to outwardly show discomfort. Your friend hardly shows any emotion beyond “cool”, although he has improved greatly over the years. Sometimes you worry about him, and other times you simply subdue the urge to nitpick his mind, put it away for a more favorable time. Regardless, you hope, for your sake, Dave is wrong in this instance.  
The door is heavy, and old. The oak is scratched to hell and back, yet still maintains a glassy shine, probably due to your mother’s penchant for cleaning even the most innocuous things. You struggle to open the wood slab, cringing from the high pitched squeal the hinges cry as they are forced to dance open, once again. Christ, shouldn’t your mother have the sense to oil the damn things? She obviously keeps the door itself nice and pretty, so why not go all the way and keep it a quiet door as well? You suppose the noise adds to the effect of the room being an old, tireless library.  
The door finally swings open, and not without effort. Now, you stand before…..a pitch black room. Right. The lights.  
You grope the wall, fingers gliding up and down the rough paint until they smack into the little plastic lever, which you flip up pointedly. It takes a few moments for the overhead lights to sputter and cough themselves alive, illuminating the vast room in a dimness fit for such an old room. Sometimes you wonder if your mother turned this particular room to house her own little private library purely based on the stereotype that old books should be kept in the most mysterious room available. If so, then, well, kudos to her. This room really was something. You aren’t sure if it's the towering bookcases filled with cracking and dying novels and biographies and spell books, or the dimming lights, or the little squeaks and noises that follow you throughout the makeshift halls, but it's probably a mix of all three. Perhaps more. Definitely the gargoyles though. Oh, yes, those fuckers that just perch menacingly on the walls, mounted to watch and quite frankly, annoy the hell out of you. Who needs gargoyles? In a library? That, what, maybe two people ever use, and that’s being generous. You scoff, just thinking about the audacity of it.  
You finally step in, socked toes brushing over the threshold, gliding over the wooden floors until you are entirely enveloped in books.  
You keep walking till the small, cramped desk that you’ve shoved back here comes into view. There are at least six books already there, although none of them are necessary at the moment. What you need, are the books on the topic of Prospit and Derse.  
Your mind drifts, back to Dave. To his hesitancy about your studies, about your own hesitance.  
No, no, you are not doing this. What use would it be, really, to have gotten this far, to have decoded this much, just to give it all up? A coward’s move, to be frank.  
You breathe, once and once again, before nodding and stepping over a few misplaced books to lightly shove the interfering books off your desk, and turn to grab the titles written by the oh so elusive Doc Scratch. You had gotten into the habit of returning the publications to the shelves from whence they came from when you’ve finished, for some reason. You rarely place things back where they belong, if you’re being honest, but anytime you leave Doc’s books out, you can’t sleep. You’ll twist and turn and fluff your pillow and grab more blankets or throw some off, but you never catch a wink unless the titles are on the shelf. You are not sure why. Do you want to be?  
The books cascade nicely into your open arms, a bit heavy, but you’re use to the strain. The utmost title pertains more heavily to Derse, and you figure it’s as good as any place to continue your research.


End file.
